They feed on her pleads
Her breed is near obscurity.
I sip on their ohs
They feed on my Ohno’s .
Certainly runaways are the flames of my candle and you are the melted wax making my modern art.
You are the matchsticks for my ashes
You are the reason for my stretches
You are the virus for my leucocytes
You will continue, but I’ll be gone.